wow -this morning ☆☆☆☆ fiksss

Last morning

Was something so spesial

When the sun shone through the window

This morning 

Being something else

Clicking open the locks in the house

And in my heart

Immersed in the houses covered with colourful paints and licks of sun

This morning (was) like a cup of gold

Like a string of light

A sweet peice of chocolate on my tonuge

This morning 

With the light light blue shine of the ocean

Under white snowy mountains 

And a sandwhich in my hand with melted cheese and ham

And the smell of chimney, like the smell of home

And that one house molded that the fire had licked up, that house that looked like death, that house that had been stolen

But maybe not stolen, maybe just taken.

Something less charged with feeling

Instead just simple, just something that is, something that goes, that is a part of the whole: cherry trees and stars and tears

All that comes and goes

And I will be taken someday, like we all

And I think it makes me scared but I also hope it is like drifting of when you are really tired, feeling that sweet drunk of sleep

Or when you are really small falling asleep in the back of the car and being carried home

and I hope death is like a warm soft bed with newly washed sheets, that smell of being taken care of

(And maybe I will feel at the end that what a precious thing i lived through)

And that I will appriciate this beauty 

We have not existed before and we will seace to exist again, what is so scary about it then?

It is like a friends home, somewhat a familiar place, like a place you walk by every once in a while: a field, a big tree, a summerhouse ...

And isnt that beautiful then, if this is all we have, this tiny gap, this interloop of time

This one colourful movement in a pocket of black

This one mark on the line, this one star on the map/in this sky, this one breath of blue

Ekstra, ikke med:

(To live, to feel, to experience all the beauty that soflty burns within

Like blood in your chest

Interstiched between a billion years of non-existence

How frightening, and how absurd, and oh so precious/special

This lung of life sandwhiched between a nothing and another nothing

How beautiful and strange

Like planets on a thread)

We all are nothing till we meet that one point of raining glass then nothing agian

Over to the next people or person 

(It is the feeling of a hug

Or a mystery)

(Everything is fuel for the artist

For art is made from living, and living is what artists need to do!)

☆☆☆☆Milkwhite crystals: the wound on my back ☆☆☆☆

Feels like glass shards

Milk-white crystals sharp

Stabbing into the soft meat of my heart

Into its unnassuming pulp of tissue

Its crystalisations of defensless blood

Blood that you slowly sucked and drawed

Trough no plaster patches and no pat on the shoulder after

The fall of the bike, or the banging on the door

I feel and will feel forever the wounds carved into the heart of a child

A pulsing wound that will continue to grow, get infected

every day, all the time, until the day i die

Even with you gone, there will be the (sharp) milkwhite crystal-shards that I could silently try to pick out

but you know how these things are

Meat is thick (and splinters grow thin(ly in))

And I will carry this wound on my back, like a wet cloth, a string of stones, a symbol of time

Like you have carried a wound on your ribs, and your mouth from your mothers mother and her mothers mother 

On and on and on

Like a sword through time

Like a needle through the bodies waiting in line, like a queue

And I will carry it too, for you have given it to me

Wherther you knew it or not, wherther you knew you were hurting or not

And it makes me neauseus how I might see another that I love, grow into such a life

I hope with all the fires in my heart, 

bowing to the sparkling orange sun/sparkling orange like the sun

You will not have to feel it all

On my knees to the stars

I know at least with me, where I can move and see (move my head and my hands up my ribs and feel where my heart is there is that sharp point under the skin like a silver knife) and where there is a point moving from my own chest into time

I will cover it with cotton and pillow and clay

And if I ever had a daughter

I would make sure her back was washed and whole and soft and washed

mother ☆☆☆☆

That night bathed in red light

Crystals in my ears

There was some wierd creepy man looking us out

Walking towards us

Scaring 

And the older woman behind me, held me like a mother

And at that moment i felt myself ready to cry

How could someone hurt a little child

And then my new mother, she dances with my father

And she smiles so truly, so deeply

Tears welling in my eyes

lung -moving ☆☆☆

The lung of the bus

Like two bodies hugging together

Coming to a close

And the smell of dust

the smell that there have been people 

and places to collect it (what a comfort)

And small sunlight slips through spring leaves

And colourful laces holding togheter shoes, 

and the hopes of a single world

Or many maybe

Of where you will go and the people on that road

Each one a pearl and petal of their own

I never knew the many interesting things that could happen in such a passing pocket of time

Colourful glass in the windows i pass

And in the morning, the sky will be pink

And I will wake to it

Again

To another day 

in a room that smells like sleep i will lift my heavy feet

/(Trying to lift my arms and heavy feet)

I want to live it

To feel the pink and see the moving breaths of others

My life moving, like the shapes of the sun 

Its okay to love something new

To losen the tread that has been so tight

Red, warm and bright

But that pulled at the head, arms and thighs

It is okay to be something else

To love the city that before poisoned you

Let slip that floating thing, resistance somewhere in your heart root

To float, to just feel and love no matter what thought you were

and what you ought to love (and not)